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We can’t help but feel a bit victorious to sit comfortably, sipping hot coffee after the frigid night. Jeremy’s comment on my tent last night — “oh, you’re gonna face into the wind, eh?” — was more significant than I expected. A mummy zip and fetal position helped little against winter winds blowing directly on my sleeping bag. Obviously I acknowledge none of that.

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“What’s in your pack that you haven’t used?” Jesse asked last night. About the only thing for me was my tire patch kit, which I mentioned. Apparently that was bad luck. I noticed the front tire was low this morning, aired it up, and now it’s low again.

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After passing in and out of Montana on State Line Road, we descend to Simmons Creek in Idaho. I stop by a camp trailer at the end of the road. I don’t see where to continue. A middle-aged man emerges with a greeting and points out the narrow trail along the opposite ravine edge. Now we’re getting serious.

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Before clouds make good on their threats, my brothers erect their tarps and I pop off the front wheel to dunk in the creek and look for escaping air bubbles. I find the problem was just a loose valve stem. The repair kit remains unused.

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Although we’ve come quite a ways from Big Creek, where we camped the first night, the 1910 fires that killed many there were also active here. “Practically the whole basin of the St. Joe above Simmons Creek was cleaned out” by those fires.¹

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We talked last night about changing our route. We’re a bit lower on gas than predicted. Four trails leave this meadow, single track no matter which way we go. After reviewing the topo map, though, the planned route remains the most direct option. We just have to go for it.